In the Hands of Man
by poshparrot
Summary: For Desmond, nothing has ever come easy. So why should death? [AU of AC:3 ending, starts at the beginning of AC:B. No slash.]
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: Hahahahah. You're kidding, right? I'm not even French.

* * *

**5.**

It is March 13, 1476, and a young boy is born to a common prostitute in Rome. No one knows who the father is.

The boy is named Alessandro. He has no last name.

**4.**

It is the year 1482, and Alessandro is six years old. His mother dies in the winter of that year from a persistent cough that eats at her until she is nothing but bones and wide, sunken eyes.

He is the only one at her funeral.

**3.**

Nine years pass, and Alessandro is no longer the solemn little boy with the ancient gaze, but instead an awkward, embittered teenager. It is the year 1491, and Alessandro has been living off the streets for eight years. Among his fellow pickpockets, he is called 'The Ghost', because he is never, ever caught, be it a nobleman, guard, or common farmer he steals from.

This is the same year that Alessandro catches his first glimpse of the famed white Assassini- a violent, graceful blur of white and red that leaps across the rooftops like they have temporarily gained wings. The bright Roman sun blinds him as he watches in awe, time stopping momentarily as the Assassino makes one last impossible leap-only to dive and fall effortlessly into a soft, golden hay bale awaiting below.

Alessandro does not know what, exactly, the Assassino fight for; most do not. He is merely a thief, and his end probably awaits him at the bottom of a gutter or at the end of a hangman's noose.

But how wonderful it would be, he thinks, to fly like they do. To have true purpose.

**2.**

Eventually, Alessandro leaves the street life for a job at the local bar. There, he learns the way of alcohol and the dizzying power it gives him over men's tongues. It is also where he grows into a man, self assured and moving with an eerie grace. But though he has reached manhood, there is still a sense of un- fulfillment that aches with every step, as though he is….forgetting something. Often, Alessandro will wake in the middle of the night clutching his stomach or arm, as if he is an old mercenary complaining of numerous scars, or perhaps he will say a turn of phrase that no one will recognize. It has happened before in his childhood, but ever since working at the bar the symptoms (symptoms? He thinks in confusion. He is not sick) have become much worse.

It frustrates to him to no end. So, like any other melancholy man his age, he drowns his troubles and phantom aches in ale. He gets into fights, some of which he wins, most of which he does not. Eventually, Alessandro gains a scar marring his upper lip, and feels a reckless satisfaction at the sight whenever he glances in the mirror.

**1.**

It is 1500, and Alessandro catches sight of a strange symbol carved into the side of a pigeon coop. He bends down to examine it, fingers hesitantly tracing the foreign curves. Although Alessandro himself has never seen this symbol in all of his short life, it is strangely familiar, soothing the persistent ache in his chest in a way that alcohol never has.

And as he gazes in somewhat frustrated curiosity, something clicks in his head.

The world darkens into shades of black and iridescent blue, the symbol before him almost blinding in its intensity. In that moment, Alessandro realizes his purpose.

He is nothing but a vessel, a passageway for something so much greater than himself. His body, his life-they were not made for him; for he is merely a steward, awaiting and guarding the house until the master returns. It was only his fault that did not realize it until the last second.

A thousand emotions flicker through him in that moment, but only one permeates his entire being.

Alessandro inhales for the last time- and regrets.

When he exhales, it is not Alessandro who breathes, but Desmond Miles.

**Ʌ**

More than five hundred years into the future, and humanity trembles under the weight of _her _fury.


	2. Introductions

_He has been riding for so long that he no longer knows what day it is, and his eyes are unable to focus from fatigue. The road before him stretches and blurs oddly in the night air, seemingly never ending._

_Pangs of discomfort shoot through his side with every rhythmic movement of the horse beneath him, and he grunts, panting heavily. He is sweating, but at the same time he is so very, very cold, as if he will never be warm again._

_He loses his balance for a moment, listing to the side. It would be so nice to rest, even for a second-_

_But no. He cannot. He must-he must- he must reach Roma because-he no longer remembers why he must reach Roma. He only knows that it is important._

_He cannot stop. He must continue…._

_The next time he loses his balance, he does not recover. The fall from his horse is short and for a moment, all he can appreciate is the lack of movement, the stillness of the ground beneath him._

_Dimly, he is aware of his horse moving forward without him, but he can longer bring himself to care. He shuts his eyes, intending to rest only for a moment. _

_Just before the darkness claims him, he thinks he feels the embrace of a pair of strong arms; the panicked muttering of a man with a strange accent._

"_Fuck, fuck, fuck- what the hell were you thinking, Ezio, running off like this with a goddamn hole in your side? Come on; don't give up on me now."_

_I have no intention of giving up anything, he thinks nonsensically. _

_But then he is falling again, falling into an embrace softer and darker than the finest pillow._

* * *

Ezio woke to the sound of someone moving around him. He listened for a moment, faking sleep as he took stock of his situation.

The last he remembered, he had been making his way to Rome when he had fallen ill; presumably, he had been found by the roadside. His bracer and sword had been removed from him, and his torso stripped of its shirt. However, his wounds had been bandaged and cleaned, and the bed he lay in was relatively soft with clean sheets. It did not seem that he had been captured by the enemy, but first appearances were deceiving- he may very well have been healed so as to last longer under torture for information on the Brotherhood. If so, escaping now would be the most prudent solution, as he would have the element of surprise on his side.

He tensed slightly as the person in the room, most likely the one who had taken care of him, moved to the bedside. It was now or never.

Ezio's eyes flickered open and he lunged upwards in attack, fingers closing around a warm, smooth throat. There was a shout of surprise as Ezio toppled them both back onto the floor, intent on the kill. The man-no, boy, really- beneath him struggled, gold-brown eyes wide in horrified astonishment. The boy didn't look a day over twenty, and Ezio felt a surge of regret and anger at the sight. No doubt the Borgia must have conscripted him through nefarious means, but he could not stop now.

"Where am I?" Ezio demanded. "Who are you?"

The boy choked, motioning wildly towards Ezio's hands. Reluctantly, Ezio lessened the pressure of his hands just enough for the boy to speak.

Coughing violently, the boy muttered, _"__Laa shay'a…. waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine!"_

"A brother?" Ezio said in puzzlement, loosening his grasp in surprise. It was…. unlikely that the Borgia would bother teaching the ancient Arabic version of the Creed to the boy, but one could not be too careful in these times. Merely knowing the Creed did not make one a true member of the Brotherhood. He retightened his grip.

"Tell me your name then, boy, so that I may remember it if I find you lied to me." He threatened. "And do not forget that you still have not answered my original questions."

The boy glared resentfully upwards. "My _name_ is A-Alessandro," He stuttered, voice hoarse from Ezio's recent attack. "And you're in Rome, you goddamn ungrateful fucker. I was the one who dragged your dead weight of a body back here and took care of you."

Ezio leaned back on his heels, which incidentally put all his body weight on the boy's chest. While the boy coughed and spluttered, Ezio considered Alessandro's words.

Ezio did remember, faintly, someone helping him when he had collapsed on the road to _Roma, _but that was not a memory he wished to rely too heavily upon. He had been half out of his mind with pain and fever, his wounds twinging even now at the memory and his recent exertions; he would probably have to let Alessandro up at some point. Ezio sighed slightly, flicking on his Other sight. As he had suspected, the boy glowed a reassuring blue. It seemed that he had overreacted, but Monteriggioni's fall had put his nerves on edge in a way that they had not been in a long time.

He stood up, letting Alessandro scramble upright to meet him. Turning away silently, Ezio began to inspect his lodgings.

It was a small room, with two windows situated on the wall opposite from the bed. A tiny closet and dresser were placed by the foot of the bed, the latter of which was covered in bandages and a bowl of steaming water. He made his way towards one of the windows, twitching aside the off-white curtain. The view looked down from the second floor of a building onto a busy street. From here, Ezio could see the distinctive dome of the Vatican, looming bright and clear in the afternoon sunlight.

Ezio turned back to look at Alessandro, who stood glaring at Ezio with his arms folded across his chest.

"Satisfied I'm not lying?" Alessandro said sarcastically.

Ezio pasted on an insincere smile. "For now. Where are we?"

"Top floor of the Dancing Lamb tavern," Alessandro replied shortly. "I work here, so they don't pry too much."

Ezio nodded, rubbing his aching shoulder thoughtfully. He really needed to get a doctor to look at it. "And your connection with the Brotherhood?"

Alessandro eyed Ezio suspiciously. "….I'm a concerned third party, let's go with that."

"A concerned third party that knows the Arabic version of the Creed?"

Alessandro bristled while Ezio looked on in slight amusement. The boy was graceful in a way that indicated training, but he acted like an immature eaglet who didn't know when to stop screeching.

"I saved your ass, and this is what I get?" Alessandro said, indignant. "When I signed up to help your crazy cult, I did it because I didn't like what the Borgia were doing to my home, not to be interrogated by some ho-homeless person Machiavelli sent to help me off the road."

_Ho…?_ Ezio wondered for a moment at the stutter, but dismissed it a second later in the face of more important information. "Machiavelli? You say Machiavelli sent you?"

"Yeah-,"

"Has he asked for me?" Ezio said urgently.

"Well," Alessandro hesitated, strangely reluctant. "He did send a message for you to meet him in front of the _Mausoleo di Augusto_ when you recovered, but-"

"I must go," Ezio said. He cast a frantic glance around the room, searching for his weapons. "What have you done with my things?"

Alessandro lifted his hands to stop Ezio when he made a movement towards Alessandro. "Hey, hey! You're not going anywhere, mister, until that side of yours isn't bleeding out whenever you twitch."

"You do not understand," Ezio replied, moving around Alessandro to rifle through the dresser and closet. Aside from medical supplies and a couple spare sets of clothing, there was nothing remotely his. He turned back to look at Alessandro, frustrated. "My wounds are nothing in the face of what Rome-no, Italia itself- will experience if I do not meet Machiavelli in time."

"Uh-huh," Alessandro said skeptically. "Because Italy really depends on whether or not you meet Machiavelli now or a week from now, when you've healed and you won't have to stop at a doctor's every time you pull your side."

"Better a doctor than you. And to be frank," He retorted, continuing, "I would much rather spend my convalescence working than be in the presence of a boy I neither know nor trust."

Ezio could _feel _the boy rolling his eyes behind his back, and he turned back to face Alessandro in exasperation, studying the strangely familiar features of the boy's face. "Do you not know who I am?" Ezio said, frustrated, watching as Alessandro suddenly looked unaccountably amused at something.

"I don't care and I don't know," Alessandro said, mouth twitching slightly. "But if you want to go and- and- _'save Italy'_ from the Borgia with a hole the size of _Firenze_ in your side, be my guest. 'Cause I can tell you're the type that will just fight me until I let you go. "

He walked over towards the bed, rifling underneath it for a moment before he brought out Ezio's old hidden blade and sword, both of which he tossed towards Ezio, along with a fresh shirt. Gratefully, Ezio strapped on both weapons, the familiar weight of his father's hidden blade and bracer a comfort in this strange company.

Ezio looked at the profile of his mysterious benefactor one last time, fixing the image firmly in his mind. Whoever this Alessandro really was, he was worth investigating at the very least. He inclined his head in slightly sarcastic thanks towards the boy, saying, "My greatest thanks for everything you have done for me, _messere_. I don't suppose you could give my directions towards the _Mausoleo_ from here?"

"Oh, first I was a boy, now I'm _messere_?" Alessandro said, huffing. "You're in the Trastevere right now, so you won't be able to see the _Mausoleo_ from here. Head for the _Centro_ district across the river and look for a large old abandoned villa. You should be able to see it from any vie-high building."

Yet another slip of tongue, Ezio mused. Perhaps he was a foreigner, or of foreign blood, though he didn't look it with his tanned skin and high cheekbones. Well, there would be time to think on these things later on. He made his way toward the door, pushing past Alessandro and opening it to look out. A staircase led downward from the doorway, where Ezio could hear the raucous noise of a busy tavern. He grimaced as the smell of food drifted upwards, his stomach rumbling hungrily. Perhaps he could gain some food and drink later on, when he had acquired money enough. Stealing here would be too noticeable.

Suddenly a question occurred to him, and Ezio turned around to ask, only to be met with a door in his face. Ezio blinked, nonplussed, then shrugged. He had only wanted to ask Alessandro about the scar on his upper lip that was a strange mirror of his own, but he supposed his earlier interrogation and argument must have put the youth off. No matter. Ezio had no doubt that he would meet Alessandro again.

But first he needed to find an actual doctor, for his wounds ached terribly with every step down the stairs. And he also really did need to find Machiavelli, because abnormal youths and aching sides or not, a revolution waited for no one.

* * *

Desmond brushed a shaking hand through his cropped hair, nerves finally overcoming him. He stumbled to the bedside heavily and sat down, staring at his trembling fingers.

God, the Animus could not have prepared him for anything like this. Meeting one of his most famous ancestors' face to face, taking care of him, talking to him, arguing with him- and that wasn't even mentioning the whole 'waking up as another person in Renaissance Italy'.

He'd regained his memories too late in time to stop the fall of Monteriggioni. Those first few days after waking up as a whole other person in the sixteenth century were still nothing but a horrified, dazed blur in his mind, with Desmond stumbling around Florence barely functioning. It didn't help that Alessandro's own memories were still strong, like a low murmur in the back of his head eerily reminiscent of the Bleeding Effect. It was only when Desmond had asked after the date in some shabby tavern that he had truly woken up to the situation.

January 6, 1500. Although the Animus didn't provide the actual day that events happened, simply the month and year, Desmond remembered from Ezio's memories that Monteriggioni had fallen almost immediately after the New Year, and had re-awoken in Rome near the middle of January. And so, with the memory of Ezio's anger and sorrow at his uncle's death fresh in Desmond's mind, Desmond had stolen the fastest horse he could find and ridden toward Monteriggioni in a somewhat misguided and ill-thought out plan to save Ezio's uncle.

He'd failed, of course. Still five miles out from Monteriggioni, and he had been able to see the smoke and flames.

But the trip hadn't been a complete disaster. When Desmond had attempted to get closer to Monteriggioni, he'd spotted a horse making its way down the road without a rider. Only a couple of feet after that lay Ezio, bleeding to death by the road.

The ensuing week had been filled with making that Ezio didn't die, there fore causing a time-paradox of massive proportions. (God, he hadn't even thought of how much he was messing up time just by existing in this period. What the hell would people think in 2012, when they were using the Animus to look at Ezio's memories? ) He'd gotten a room at Alessandro's old job, where he was able to take care of Ezio without too much prying. For days, he'd worried and fretted over what he was going to do if Ezio didn't wake up, and would he would do if/when he _did_ wake up.

This morning had started out fairly normally for what his life amounted to now, Desmond working Alessandro's old job in-between checking up on Ezio. Surprisingly, no one had remarked on any change in his behavior, letting Desmond slip into Alessandro's old life with barely a hitch despite his own rampant internal conflict. Then, well. Ezio woke up, and Desmond had basically let Alessandro take over.

Now Ezio had left to liberate Rome from the Borgia, but it was obvious that he would be back. And, of course, Desmond had ended up panicking and lying to Ezio about Machiavelli sending him.

Frankly, Desmond was surprised Ezio hadn't called him out from the very beginning- Alessandro's body and face looked very similar to Desmond's and Ezio's, despite being built much thinner and more rangy than either of the two. Not to mention the scar- hell, put the three of them together along with Altair and Connor, and you'd have fucking quadruplets. Maybe he'd just been too out of it to really notice; nearly dying and then ambushing a guy would do that to a person….

….Desmond dropped his head into his hands and groaned. _He was so fucked._

He peeked through his fingers after a moment, gazing at the room that had been, basically, his home for the past week or so. It was actually a rather nice place, considering. Yet at this rate, it looked like he was going to have to leave it, because there was no way he was going to wait around for Ezio to find him. And unless he left Italy entirely, Ezio was bound to find him, which meant weeks of traveling and unknown, probably unfriendly countries.

Unless-

Desmond shook his head and sat up, a crazy idea settling into his mind, though it wasn't like he had any better prospects.

Really, all Desmond had ever wanted was to live a quiet life, but that had been ripped away from him with the shitfest that 2012 had turned out to be. (He wasn't going to think about how Shaun, Rebecca and his father were doing. He couldn't, because if he did he'd probably never get up again.) But now, now he somehow had a second chance, and fuck if he was going to waste it. No more Templar's and Assassin's and devices that had the capability of controlling the entire human race. No more stupid, ill-advised trips to rush off and help his ancestors. He was done.

Now if only he could get over the irony that he was going to contact La Volpe in order to accomplish that.

* * *

**A/N: **You have no idea how long I've been working on this, guys. This idea actually started back when Revelations came out, I think-but between loads of homework, not having my own computer, and procrastinating, this took ridiculously long to flesh out. Expect slow updates.

In any case, lotta set up this chapter. Poor Desmond, he never gets a break. It's why he curses so much, because I would curse a lot in that kind of situation too, wouldn't you?

But in the mean time, Ezio investigates this strange Alessandro character, and Desmond's plan is elaborated on in the next chapter. La Volpe, huzzah! And I hope the premise makes sense, 'cause. I really dun' wanna 'splain no more …

Also, plot-holes? I don't see no plot-holes.

As for the history notes, the Trastevere is historically known to be a poorer Jewish district just across the Tiber River from the Centro district in Rome. Nowadays though, it looks like a really nice place to live.


	3. The Fox's Mouth

This was such a bad idea.

Desmond stared upwards at the ramshackle hulk of _La Volpe Addormentata, _silhouette black and sharp in the late afternoon light. It was smaller than he remembered, but somehow all the more intimidating for it. He loitered for a moment outside, too edgy to move. Not for the last time, Desmond wondered for a moment at the utter stupidity of his plans.

He inhaled deeply, glancing up at the position of the sun. Night was falling fast, and though the days were slowly lengthening once more, he still didn't want to be caught out after dark; especially so in his case as he doubted his plan was going to go well. _Get it done, Desmond._

He shook his head and made his way to the entrance of the bar, pushing the heavy door inwards.

Inside was even smaller and dirtier than its exterior had suggested, with an atmosphere that hung heavy with the suspicious gazes of La Volpe's thieves. Many of the tables sat unoccupied, while the rushes underfoot looked black and moldy in the half-light, whether from the lighting or actual filth Desmond couldn't tell. The place looked destitute, a far cry from the bustling establishment of Ezio's memories.

Desmond resisted the urge to swallow nervously as he made his way through, where he hesitated for a moment before rapping sharply on the warped bar top. The bartender wiping the mugs there looked up at the noise, gaze full of suspicion, before reluctantly making his way towards Desmond.

"And who're you?" The bartender said, with a voice like gravel scraping on a chalkboard.

Desmond raised an eyebrow, carefully faking nonchalance. "What business is it of you?"

The bartender, a scarred hulk of a man, carefully placed the mug he had been holding down with a definite _clunk._

"You're that type, then," The bartender said, voice indicating what, exactly, he thought about Desmond's 'type'. "Lemme me make it clearer like, then. What do you want?"

"A fox," Desmond said carefully. He startled when the bartender let out a bark of laughter, disturbingly similar to that of a baying hound on the hunt.

"A fox! What makes you think you have any business at all with foxes?" The bartender said, chuckling, but his eyes were hard as he stared at Desmond. "I imagine if you wanted to find a fox, just find a vixen in heat and make for the countryside. Probably the only way you could get close to one."

The bar erupted in derisive snickers at the insult, and Desmond repressed a shudder as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the sound. Everything about this situation made him feel uncomfortably close to prey, like a rabbit frozen stupid at the sight of white, snapping teeth.

But he hadn't come this far, sacrificed this much, only to chicken out at the first sign of difficulty.

"I don't need a vixen," Desmond said, filled with momentary bravado. "What's a woman in the face of forbidden fruit?"

"F-forbidden fruit?" The bartender replied, momentarily thrown. "Aren't they one and the same? Eh?"

There was a smattering of laughter, but the tone was now slightly uneasy.

Emboldened, Desmond continued, "Yeah, forbidden fruit. 'Specially the kind that's been stolen from you."

"What the hell are you on about-," The bartender started, angry now, but stopped abruptly at the touch of a slender hand on his shoulder. Pale fingers adorned only with a single, heavy gold ring tightened briefly in warning before withdrawing, and the distinctive hood of La Volpe appeared from behind the bartender's hulk.

"I think that is enough, Pietro," La Volpe said, voice smooth with warning. Pietro paled and ducked his head, backing away. Satisfied, La Volpe turned his attention to Desmond, who shivered at the sight of those unnaturally purple eyes focused on him. There was a pause as they raked over Desmond, measuring and assessing, and when they rose back up to meet Desmond's own gaze, he knew he had been found wanting.

"Come with me," La Volpe murmured, moving out behind the bar through the now silent crowd of thieves. Jerkily, Desmond followed.

They made their way out the bar through an unobtrusive door in the back, coming out into a small, untended courtyard filled with old barrels. La Volpe stopped here, turning to face Desmond with the late afternoon sunlight casting strange shadows onto his face. After a long, interminable minute in which Desmond shifted awkwardly and resisted the now very strong urge to run, La Volpe suddenly spoke.

"Forbidden fruit, you spoke of?"

"Yes," Desmond said quietly, bravado gone in the face of La Volpe's appearance. The man was somehow even more intimidating in person than in the Animus, where his memory had been filled with a sense of familiarity and kinship.

La Volpe nodded, twisting the ring around his finger thoughtfully. "….your name, stranger?"

"Alessandro."

"No last name?"

"No. And none of your business, either." Desmond decided to fall back into the persona of Alessandro. He found it easier to speak this way, courage increasing as his posture relaxed minutely. La Volpe observed this without comment, eyes flashing.

"'None of my business?'" La Volpe repeated, cold. "I should think that as soon as you stepped into my establishment, everything about you was my business. But no matter. Tell me more about this so-called fruit of yours."

And here was the difficult part. Desmond exhaled a brief gust of air. He had to do this right. "I've a proposition for you."

"Do go on," La Volpe said sarcastically.

"You've lost something important recently," Desmond started, hesitantly. "I'm not going to go into details here, but I understand that you would pay a considerable amount to get it back."

La Volpe watched him with an odd glint in his purple eyes. "It is money, then, that you are after?"

Desmond shook his head. "No. Not money. I want you to hide me by making me one of your thieves."

"A thief? One of my thieves, no less?'

"Yes."

La Volpe scoffed. "Hah! With your utter lack of subtlety? You are like a bull set loose in a church."

"Just-just hear me out, alright?" Desmond said.

"No," La Volpe cut him off severely. "Hear _me_ out first. Ignoring the audacity of asking to become one of my thieves-which is a much harder position to come by than you seem to imply-who could possibly be dangerous enough that you would seek refuge from me? Barring the Borgia themselves, there are very few, and I do not recall your presence in the company of those individuals."

Desmond hesitated. "….Ezio Auditore."

La Volpe stilled for a moment. "Auditore is dead."

"No, he isn't," Desmond said, shaking his head. "I was able to find and rescue him in time."

"Is. That. So," said La Volpe slowly, eyes wide and dangerous as he stared at Desmond, seemingly reassessing. "And where is your proof of this?"

"Send someone to the _Mausoleo di Augusto,_" Desmond replied, tense. Something bad was about to happen. "You'll find him there."

Without taking his gaze off Desmond, La Volpe whistled suddenly, high and piercing. Desmond jumped as he heard a door open behind him, turning to see a now penitent Pietro walk out.

"La Volpe?" Pietro asked.

"Head to the _Mausoleo di Augusto,_" La Volpe said abruptly, turning his gaze to Pietro. "Search for a man named Ezio Auditore."

"Auditore?" Pietro repeated incredulously, only to stop at La Volpe's glare. He ducked his head. "I'll get on it right away."

"See that you do." La Volpe waved a hand, dismissive. "You have already failed one too many times today."

Pietro flinched and swallowed, then turned sharply on his heel. He glared angrily at Desmond as he passed, only to scale up the bar walls nimbly and disappear out of sight.

"Doubtless you know the consequences of lying to me," La Volpe said after a moment, undisturbed. Desmond turned back to him reluctantly. "Do not think you can fool me- I am very, very good at finding lies, as I have made it my livelihood to tell them. And that includes those clever ones who think to lie by omission."

"….what?" Desmond said, confused. The apprehensive feeling in his gut tightened unpleasantly.

"What? What?" La Volpe mocked, pacing as he started to slowly circle Desmond. "You utter fool. You claim to have knowledge of things beyond your comprehension, walking in here thinking to bargain with me. And in that, at least, you tell the truth. Yet have I heard any of this information?"

"I was seriously beginning to consider simply torturing you for all you knew, and then killing you," He continued after a moment, thoughtful. "Most certainly, you do know at least something of import; otherwise you would have not dared step foot here."

"But then you brought up the subject of Ezio Auditore."

Instincts screaming, Desmond started to back away, but La Volpe rushed forward pinning Desmond roughly to the wall. As he struggled desperately La Volpe unsheathed his hidden blade, pressing it close to Desmond's neck.

"Auditore, the man whom all thought dead," La Volpe breathed. "Yet you claim he is alive and well. But at the same time, you wish to be hidden from him! What a strange paradox. Why would the savior of Ezio Auditore want to run from him?"

"The answer is rather simple," La Volpe said, answering his own question. "The little traitor jailor wants his ransom, but is smart enough to realize that with the ransom comes a very dangerous enemy- two dangerous enemies, in fact, from both the cross and the eagle. So he hides."

Desmond swallowed as La Volpe glared at him, scrambling for a reply as he felt the hidden blade scrape his throat. "I'm not a Templar!"

"Then what are you?" La Volpe demanded. "State your purpose and knowledge clearly, or suffer the consequences."

"I don't work for anyone," Desmond said hastily. "All I want is to be left alone, but I know too much for that to be possible right now." All the knowledge of his ancestors had suddenly pressed to the forefront of his mind, urging him to break free-but if he did that, he would never have this chance again. With effort, he fought the memories down, forcing his body to go limp, unthreatening.

"And so I decided that," He said, swallowing, "if I was going to sell what I know, I might as well sell it to the right side."

"Pretty words," La Volpe hissed, twisting his hidden blade deliberately, "but I _still _have yet to have heard anything of significance. Speak!"

So Desmond did.

With the threat of eminent death, he told La Volpe about the Apple and what the Borgia intended to use it for. He went into detail about its location and how well guarded it was, and most importantly, what could happen if it wasn't stolen back soon. He cut and edited out quite a bit, like the origins of the Apple and how he actually knew about all this (though he was sure that it would come back later on to bite him in the ass), and some of the details he fudged and made educated guesses, but by the end, he was fairly certain he had made a convincing enough case that he wouldn't be killed. Hopefully.

When Desmond finished, there was a pause in which nothing was said. La Volpe's expression was inscrutable even this close, twitching fingers causing his ring to flash in the sunlight. Desmond couldn't help but watch the movements, something about the glint of the ring as it moved making him wince internally-

"You still do not say anything of Auditore," La Volpe said unexpectedly, eyes narrowing. "What are you not telling me?"

For a very short moment, Desmond considered telling La Volpe a lie, then immediately dismissed it. He had told all he could, and it still didn't seem like the old man was going to let him go. He was going to have fight.

It took less than a second for the necessary memory to be selected, and then Desmond was twisting, bringing his knee sharply up into La Volpe's gut. Surprised, La Volpe involuntarily loosed his grip, and Desmond slipped out and behind La Volpe, already prepping himself to run for his life.

There was a shout from the rooftops, and Desmond glanced up to look- only to be pulled back painfully, a foot to the backs of his knees forcing him to the ground, rough hands twisting his arm behind so he couldn't move his torso. He struggled violently, panting.

"I don't think so," said La Volpe, voice slightly out of breath behind him. "And that little move you pulled back there really did not help your situation. Assassin training, eh! Well, well, well. It seems you get more interesting by the minute, Alessandro."

_Fucking stupid! _Why hadn't he thought to bring a weapon? Desmond despaired. With just a knife, he would be up and out of here with almost no problems. He winced and didn't reply, shoulders hunching as he waited for the worst.

There was a crunching sound from behind him_. _"La Volpe! We saw him attack you. Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine," La Volpe replied impatiently. Desmond gave one last violent twist at that, trying to get out, but was easily overpowered. Goddamn it, but this was not going how he had wanted it to. "Get over here, will you? I want him well watched."

Multiple pairs of rough hands grabbed at Desmond's shoulders, pulling him to his feet. At least five or six large thieves surrounded him, shoving and pushing. Through the tavern door, the unfriendly glow of many eyes glared at him. He slumped. There was no way he going to be able to fight his way out of this now. La Volpe watched impassively, brushing the dust from his cloak.

"I dislike liars who are not under my employ," La Volpe said to Desmond in a matter of fact manner. "Especially the ones who are bad at it." He shook his head. "_Coglione. _Take him away."

His hands cuffed and held behind his back, Desmond was dragged through the tavern to the back, down the stairs and into a small holding cell, dark and dusty from disuse. There he was thrown, landing harshly on his ass against the cold wooden stone floor. The door was slammed and locked with a rather final _click_.

In total darkness, Desmond shut his eyes and sighed. _Note to self: never make plans again._

**Ʌ**

Hours passed, and Desmond lost track of time. At one point a plate filled with fresh bread was slid in, along with a mug of sour ale, but other than that Desmond had no way of telling how long he spend sitting alone. The cell was surprisingly clean, but as cells went, this one was especially boring. The door was strong and well-made, and Desmond quickly figured out he wouldn't have any chance of escape until somebody came in. It wasn't long before Desmond fell asleep, more out of lack of something to do than anything else.

So it was a very groggy Desmond who woke at the sound of a door slamming open, blinking heavily in the sudden light from the doorway. As his eyes focused, he was a bit surprised to see the distinctive figure of La Volpe. There was a long, considering silence.

La Volpe broke it first. "You are a very, very stupid man."

Desmond smiled for the first time in what seemed like a long time. "People tell me that all the time. I'm guessing you found him?"

"Yes," La Volpe said, almost disbelievingly. "Alive and well, if a little worse for the wear."

Desmond sat up from his position on the floor, back cracking as he moved. "So….," He started, "does this mean you believe me?" Probably not, but still, a guy could hope-

"_Dannazione_. Yes. God help me, but yes. I accept your proposal," La Volpe said, slowly. "Despite my many misgivings."

Desmond stared for a moment in total disbelief. "Thank you?" He said hesitantly, squinting against the light of the torch.

La Volpe held up a hand, stopping him. "Do not thank me, child. I accept your proposal, but I have conditions."

"I will not pry how you came to be hunted by Auditore, yet," La Volpe continued, when he saw Desmond fall quiet. "But I expect you to tell me of how you came to be so…._knowledgeable _some time very soon. I do not trust you, and those I do not trust do not often live long."

"I also expect for you to train and work for me like any other of my thieves," He continued. "I dislike favoritism, and I would think that you are in sore need of it, anyway."

Desmond grimaced, but held silent. It looked like his half-assed plan was working, to an extent, and he wasn't about to get in the way of it now- any problems that arose because of La Volpe's conditions he would just have to deal with as they came.

And he _did_ have training- lifetimes of it, in fact; only problem was that to access those skills for extended periods of time was to sacrifice his sanity. But it wasn't like he could tell La Volpe that. Couldn't tell anyone, actually. Ever.

"Finally," La Volpe finished with a weird, almost manic look in his eye, "Have you thought about your plan to evade Auditore beyond contacting me?"

"I thought Ez- I mean, Auditore would back off when he realized I was one of yours," Desmond pointed out. "If he asked around, you could just say I was from a rival gang or something who was paid to take care of him and knows about the Brotherhood." It was a very flimsy plan, Desmond had to admit, but he was literally flying by the seat of his pants here. And truthfully he was fucking creeped out here. Apparently Ezio had never seen La Volpe at his worst, because the old man changed moods like clothes- one moment demanding to have him imprisoned, the next minute agreeing to work with him. Something wasn't right about this situation, but hell if he was going to complain about it right now.

La Volpe made a dismissive flick with his hand, unaware of Desmond's uneasy inner monologue. "Pathetic. No, I think I have something better in mind."

"Something that will…. _benefit_ the both of us."

* * *

She stood in a white, blank hell, devoid of noise and depth. It was from here that she controlled and held the world at her mercy.

Encircling her hands were countless golden threads, which spread, glimmering, from her fingers into the distance. Every so often she would twitch a fingertip ever so slightly, causing the threads to vibrate in an oddly discordant symphony that grated against the ears. Each thread was a life- a life that she controlled minutely, whether directly or by more subtle means. It was an efficient, beautiful thing that she had created herself….Or rather, had manipulated through the years to suit her own needs.

She felt no guilt. Those who had created it were long gone, and could no longer interfere.

She tilted her head as she plucked another string, this one thinner and less substantial than the others. Her hold on this one was tenuous at the best of times, worn thin by time and space, but it was just enough to suggest, to plant the seed of suspicion. And it was working. Soon, all who would stand in her way, relics and fools of an age past, would be gone. And she, she alone would rule.

Her smile was a cold, terrible thing.

* * *

**A/N: **You guys are awesome! I honestly didn't believe that this story would so much of a response, especially for a non-slash story in this fandom. And I like slash as much as the next, but you gotta have a break every now and then, right?

In any case, this chapter was originally going to contain Ezio as well, but then I realized that it had been almost a month since my last update, and I was just like 'Fuck it, I'mma post this'. So I did. Again, expect slow updates. Unless anyone wants to beta this monster? /coughcoughcough

Finally, for those of you wondering why La Volpe doesn't comment on Desmond's similarity to Ezio, well, that is a plot point that will be explained in later chapters. So, look forward to that!


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